"Thanks," said Ashton-Kirk; "if you please."
The barred door was unlocked and opened; the two entered, and stood face to face with young Burton.
"How are you?" said Scanlon, holding out a ready hand. "Remember me? I saw you at your place at Stanwick one day."
"The day I was arrested," said the young man. "I remember you."
Scanlon waved the hand, which the other had neglected to take, toward his friend.
"This is Mr. Ashton-Kirk. You may have heard of him. He's interested in this case."
The young artist made a weary gesture.
"That can be said of a great many people," he said. His face was white and had a harassed look; his eyes shone feverishly. "I have been, to speak frankly, plagued to death by their interest. It isn't a pleasant thing to feel that almost every one is consumed with the desire to place a brand of some sort upon a fellow creature."
Ashton-Kirk regarded him without resentment.
"I understand the feeling, I think," said he, quietly. "It comes from the shock of the charge laid against you, and the depression of the jail. But consider this," and the singular eyes held the young man steadily; "if the truth is to come out in this matter, interest must be taken by some one. If you are to be freed of this charge it will be very likely, by placing the weight of it upon some one else."